


ANDANTE CANTABILE

by words_of_a_broken_man



Category: Bedannibal - Fandom, Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom
Genre: Bedannibal - Freeform, F/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Series, bathtub porn, electric-couple prompts, ignore the stinger, where bedelia has two legs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 18:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15225480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/words_of_a_broken_man/pseuds/words_of_a_broken_man
Summary: Post series, set present day where there are no past Sunday Roast Bedelias.After three years living outside of society, Hannibal tracks Bedelia to a small Cuban island. For @electric-couple prompt "Physical Contact" Could also be post S3 prompt.INGREDIENTS: Hannibal cooking, white burgundy, bathtubs, Florentine references, mild intellectual snobbery.





	ANDANTE CANTABILE

After the fall he is free. Hannibal Lecter is dead, long live the good Doctor. He finds an unusual niche on the dark web; a silent market prepared to pay handsomely to enjoy the manner of dining experience only he can offer, the illicit nature of each transaction a tacit agreement in kind. He despises the commodification of something so raw and personal but it allows him to amass the resources he needs. It galls him; every client joins a uniquely curated list as he silently gathers momentum.

Cayo Largo; where crystalline water rhythmically caresses pristine white sand. Clad in faded jeans and a worn linen shirt he merged seamlessly with the throng of fishermen and labourers at the small wharf servicing the island, silver-hewn beard shimmering in the afternoon sun.

A hole in the wall bar just back from the dock, where common men drink and dance to roughly spun jazz is where he finds her. Far from the opulent beach clubs and tourist traps, she sips her Cuba Libre beneath a broad white sun-hat in spite of the rapidly dipping sun staining the sky umber as it spills through the windows. Alabaster skin kissed by the twilight sky, her elegant fingers dance along the length of her glass as she delicately turns the page of a journal, seemingly aloof.

Shielded by a battered fedora and aviators, he knows better, taking another long draw of his Cohiba as he observes. Flamenco guitar washes over double-bass and an accent of brush-struck snare while a pianist noodles aimlessly in company. He despises jazz, but this is pleasant enough; devoid of the pretentions of American incarnations. Honest, sun-worn faces shone as they exchanged riffs over rum in the corner of the bar.

A young, lithe barman delivers another drink, white teeth glinting as he basks in the glow of her attention. He notes that her Spanish has improved significantly as she palms the boy a modest tip with her usual cool, impassive smile. She’s a local it seems; an accepted _desconocido_ , an exotic predator melding seemlessly into the landscape.

The band breaks, leaving the bar in the throes of generic afro-cuban funk and a ball game grating away in the far corner. He rises, drink and cigar in hand and settles at the piano. Nothing elaborate, a simple upright Steinway that was no doubt liberated from it’s captors during the revolution. His fingers drift over the ivory reverently; materialism drowned alongside his former identity. The last time he played…. He leaned on the una corda, absently working through a brief warm up, reacquainting himself.

Hannibal sighed. Florence.

***

Just as she made the weekly journey to _Vera Dal_ , every Thursday afternoon she made the eight-mile trip to the small township near the fishing wharf. Avoiding the small stream of tourists; she collected her mail, a modest selection of groceries and charmed the local fishermen into allowing her the pick of their catch. Eschewing the Cuban love of vintage Chevvies, she stowed her bounty in a utilitarian ex-military Jeep. Nothing ostentatious; beside the fact anything less would fail to handle the final 3 miles to her bungalow.

The isolation and relative obscurity afforded her a degree of safety; lessons learned behind the veil afforded her a rare series of survival skills. A few US dollars in the right hands ensured a steady supply of small luxuries flowed her way off the back of deliveries to the resorts on the island. The sea breeze gently lifted the pages of her copy of the International Journal of Psychiatry as she sipped her Cuba Libre. The rum took a little getting used to, but like the music, it suited the climate.

Che, a young barman who spent his days working on the dock found her enchanting; tripping over himself to find her favour as he replaced her drink with a shy grin. The modest tips she left him no doubt doubling his pay ensured she was never troubled. She engaged him in cursory conversation, practising her Spanish as the band laid down their instruments in the bar. He was saving his money to move to Havana and study engineering. She smiled in spite of herself, $5 tip becoming fifty as she made him promise he would apply for the mid-year intake. Stunned, he stammered back in broken English, feet shuffling, head bowed reverently as he thanked her. She nodded, returning her attention to the journal. Kindness had never come naturally.

Somewhere between the rhythmic breathing of the ocean and the drone of sports over piped in jazz, the piano slowly came to life. Tentatively at first, tumbling through bars like a newborn foal. Some drunk who was afforded a lesson or two as a child she reasoned. Minutes later the technique had tightened; she paused, attention drifting from the journal as she fought to isolate the melody through the cacophony.

Rachmaninoff? She turned away from the water to the tall, lean figure at the piano, shaggy hair obscured by a battered fedora. The din slowly subsided as attention began to pool on the pianist.

The immaculate posture, technique… She felt her chest tighten. Rhapsody on a theme of Paganini. The last time those chords washed over her the sun sunk behind the Duomo; the 25th variation leaving her spread across the top of the piano, fingers eschewing the keys for the ivory of her skin.

Bedelia bit her lip, taking a long swallow of her drink in an attempt to slow her heart rate. It seemed on this occasion Moriarty had outlived Sherlock.

Hannibal let the final variation leave him, fingers hovering above the keys as tentative applause powdered the room. He collected his cigar, downing the last of his rum in a single mouthful as he nodded briefly, acknowledging the few interested onlookers before heading to the bar.

“The most perfect love song ever composed.” Her perfect, crisp enunciation sung to him through the din of the bar.  
Hannibal turned toward her voice, slowly removing his hat. Bedelia regarded him; shaggy hair and beard streaked with silver. Glassy eyed, she brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead, revealing a deep scar above his left eye. She bit her lip, tracing the line with a fingertip before his hand caught hers, holding it to his cheek as her fingertips tangled in his beard.

“Your person suit…” She mused.

“Has evolved beyond silk and wool.”

His clothes hung loosely from his frame, the extra condition his former life afforded him absent. He was as lean and fit as the throng of labourers and fisherman from which he had emerged.

“Where are you staying?” Infinite questions. Her hand dropped to his chest.

“Wherever I find myself.” He cocked his head to the side, contemplative.

“I expect you already know where I live.”

***

The bungalow is nothing overt, a simple dwelling on stilts obscured by palms as the waves beneath swoon by the pull of the moon. After carting a week of provisions inside they find themselves in a familiar tableaux; Bedelia opening a bottle of Coche Dury as Hannibal officiously ransacked the kitchen.

“I would ask where you’ve been for the last three years.” Bedelia handed him a glass of Mersault. “But I’m not entirely certain I want to know.”

“Vintage?” Hannibal gave his glass a quick swirl, nosing the contents thoughtfully.

“2010.” Bedelia paused, inspecting the bottle.

“Do you have a decanter?” Hannibal took a sip of wine, aerating it in his mouth before swallowing, eyes closed.

“Next to the Bordeaux glasses.” Bedelia gestured to a cupboard behind him, nosing her glass quizzically before taking a sip. “I suppose it is a little closed.”

“Extremely tight.” Hannibal tipped the contents of his glass into the decanter before upending the bottle unceremoniously as she watched him, eyebrows raised.

“I have been doing a little bit of paid entertaining.” Hannibal offered. “Some of the finest seafood in the world, Bedelia. What happened to the rest?” He held up a bag of fillets.

“Had I been expecting your company, I would have acquired them whole.”

“May I?” Hannibal gestured toward her glass. Bedelia passed it to him, his fingers lingering on hers as he slipped it from her grasp. Hannibal added the contents to the decanter, giving it a few rough swirls before inhaling the contents deeply. A broad smile spread beneath the brush of his beard as he refilled her glass.

“Taste it now.” He watched intently as she took the glass, slowly swirling the contents. “It’s alive now. Awake. Tell me what you smell.”

“Wet stones,” Bedelia nosed the wine. “White peach, white flowers of some manner, oak, butter…”

“Now taste.” Hannibal took a mouthful. “Before it was all acid, shut off from the world. Now that tight, racy acidity is carrying all these stunning complexities forward.” He rolled another sip of wine around is mouth, eyes closed.

“When one is deprived of stimulus for extended periods of time, senses heighten.” Bedelia mused.

“Or dull.” Hannibal shrugged. “Admittedly I was afforded some privileges, but a diet of corned beef and stewed fruit is hardly enticing.”

“What was your first meal after your escape, Hannibal?” Bedelia probed. “Or rather, who?”

“Seared kidney in beurre noisette.” Hannibal offered succinctly. “With a congnac demi-glace.”

“Sounds extremely rich.”

“He was.”

***

“Horse mackerel crudo followed by seared snapper with an avocado, mango and chilli salsa. The mango and avocado from your garden.”

Thoroughly sated, Bedelia couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten so well. Conversation ebbed and flowed throughout their meal as they continued to re-establish thresholds. Bedelia had published a second book and several journal articles; Hannibal alternated between periods of luxury and stealth, having arrived on the island two days prior by way of masquerading as a mid-shipman on a supply vessel. Returning to the freighter to sleep, he smelled of diesel, salt and sweat.

“Now you are here, what do you plan on doing, Hannibal?” Bedelia asked, cradling a balloon of cognac as he finished washing the last of the dishes.

“If it isn’t too much of an imposition,” He paused, pretension absent. “I would like to bathe.”

“Bathe?”

“I have spent the last fortnight in shared quarters at sea with eight other men and an inadequate pump-driven shower.” Hannibal paused. “Given your personal proclivities, I trust you have a bath?”

Bedelia collected her glass, sauntering from the room. Moments later the soft sound of running water complemented the ocean beneath them. Hannibal followed slowly in her wake. A free-standing tub facing floor to ceiling windows stood in the centre of the room, still her hallmark indulgence. He slowly began to shed his clothes, casting away his worn linen shirt and jeans. Bedelia shook a measure of vertiver and sandalwood scented oil into the water as she watched. He was lean now, muscle rippled across his form and veins snaked along his biceps and forearms. The scar of a gunshot wound just below his ribs, deep lacerations across his bicep and shoulder to match the gash in his calf she had closed all those years ago, and as he turned away, she stifled a gasp at the sight of the twisted path of Verger’s brand cutting across the muscles of his back.

“Hannibal…” She breathed, watching him sink slowly into the heat of the water.

“For better or worse, Bedelia. A number of people have attempted to leave their mark on me.” Hannibal reclined. “How dull it must be to be so remarkedly unremarkable.”

“Mason Verger… I thought it was another Freddie Lounds fable.”

“Sometimes the truth is darker than even the most enterprising minds can envisage.” Hannibal leaned forward in the bath, exposing his scarred back. “Mason wanted to ensure I had the same experience as his pigs. He was quite thorough in that regard. I respect the time invested in planning, however the execution was far too convoluted. Too many moving parts.”

Bedelia’s fingertips traced the shiny, puckered skin of his back. Remembering vividly how it felt beneath her palms, against the delicate skin of her breasts as she lay sprawled across his back. She leaned forward, gently kissing the back of his neck; he shuddered beneath her lips, breath escaping his with a hiss.

Bedelia washed him slowly; fingertips tracing every inch, re-learning an old dance as he relaxed back into her touch. She soaped his mane of hair, working over every pressure point on his scalp until he lay limply in the tub. Bedelia padded over to the vanity, returning with shaving soap a brush and straight razor.

“You don’t like the beard.” He muttered as the cool steel blade slid up his neck.

“I accept that there are things I cannot control.” Bedelia mused, wiping the blade on a towel. “We can dispense with the disguise. I see you.”

Clean-shaven, she gently smoothed a thin layer of fresh aloe across his jaw and neck, the cool gel a sharp sensory thrill in the warm air of the bathroom. Hannibal caught her by the wrist, pulling her down into a rough, desperate kiss, hands snaking below her blouse as she gripped his hair. Calloused palms flush against her skin, she growled against his lips. Yes, the wool and silk were gone, pretension and whimsy discarded.

“What do you want, Hannibal?” Bedelia breathed, fingers wound tight in his hair.

“You.”


End file.
